


i never promised you a rose garden

by Spikedluv



Series: Missing Scene 'Verse [3]
Category: V (1983)
Genre: Community: smallfandomflsh, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mike Donovan receives a threatening letter, and it appears that someone may be trying to kill him, his boss hires Ham Tyler to keep him safe and figure out who’s behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i never promised you a rose garden

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a missing scene that takes place between V: The Final Battle and V: The Series; third in the Missing Scenes ‘verse, but can be read as a standalone. Written for smallfandomflsh using prompt #21: Trust.
> 
> Written: July 11, 2011

After the Visitors had been driven off by the release of the red dust, the world began the long process of rebuilding. Few of the resistance fighters had a place in directing the recovery efforts. They’d been given the old ‘thanks for your help, but now let the professionals handle it’, even though many of those so-called professionals had been nowhere to be found during the Visitor occupation.

Mike had picked up his camera and, with Martin as his new assistant, returned to the job he’d held before the invasion. Instead of military death squads in El Salvador, though he covered the new government’s efforts to save the people stockpiled aboard the captured mothership, collaborator trials, and unsuccessful attempts to reverse the conversion process.

It was difficult for Mike to return to his old life, a so-called normal life. He’d spent too many months alternately fighting for the freedom of the entire planet and running for his life, and he’d effectively lost his son to the Visitors, as well as many friends, like Tony, and his ex-wife Marjorie.

The war they’d fought was still too much with him for Mike to put it aside and cover the upheaval in Central America or the Middle East as they attempted to recover from the occupation. He needed to be right there in LA, where Julie was part of the team trying to dismantle and analyze the mothership. If they found a way to reverse the conversion process, Mike couldn’t be thousands of miles away from Sean.

Recently Mike had scored a coveted interview with Diana’s attorney, Nolan Griffin, a man who thought to make a name for himself by defending the lizard at her trial. (Whether he actually expected to win, or not, was another matter entirely.) Mike was surprised that Diana had agreed; the only thing he could figure was that she had some ulterior motive he’d find out about soon enough.

The interview had been scheduled for that morning, but Mike’d had to cancel it when his boss called him into the studio for a mandatory meeting. Because he was missing out on the interview, Mike was already annoyed before he walked into Jason Marrow’s office. Seeing Ham Tyler sitting on the couch as if he belonged there after six months of silence sent him over the edge into anger.

“What’s he doing here?” Mike demanded of Marrow.

“Nice to see you, too, Gooder,” Ham drawled.

Mike shot him a glare, but it slid off Ham as if he was made of Teflon. Ham’s ankle rested on the opposite knee, and he was reading through the contents of the folder that lay open on his lap.

“He’s here to make sure you stay alive,” Marrow answered.

Mike dragged his attention back to his boss when the other man spoke. “What?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you, Gooder,” Ham said.

“Nobody’s trying to kill me,” Mike said irritably, and if they were he could take care of himself, thank you very much. He certainly didn’t need Ham Tyler to babysit him.

“So you’re telling me you _didn’t_ get shot?” Ham said dryly.

Mike turned on him. “It was a flesh wound,” he said, forcing himself not to flex his arm and tug at the stitches. “And we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Ham ignored Mike’s denial. He waved the papers he’d been reading through. “You’ve gotten some hate mail.”

“Most of those people just needed to vent,” Mike said, dismissing the letters.

“Most,” Ham agreed, but it didn’t actually _sound_ like he was agreeing with Mike. “Probably.”

Ham replaced the letters in the folder and closed it. He waved the one letter he’d held onto at Mike.

“I found this one particularly interesting.” Ham read out loud from the letter. “The Visitors promised us a cure for cancer, among other diseases . . . . You deserve to die for the thousands you’ve sentenced to death . . . . Signed, An Earthling For the Visitors.”

Ham raised his eyes from the letter and looked at Mike as if he expected Mike to trip all over himself telling him how much he needed Ham to keep him safe from the anonymous person who called himself ‘An Earthling For the Visitors’.

“He’s clearly delusional,” Mike said.

Ham nodded his agreement. “Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”

Marrow spoke before Mike could respond. “Mr. Tyler is going to investigate the shooting and this letter, and he’s going to be your bodyguard until the matter is concluded to my satisfaction.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard!” Mike exploded, adding a belated, “Sir.”

“I disagree,” Marrow said with finality.

“I can’t do my job with him tagging along,” Mike said. “Can you imagine how my interview with Nolan Griffin would go with him in the back making comments?”

“I’ll be quiet as a church mouse,” Ham promised drolly.

“Yeah, right,” Mike snorted.

“I have a solution to that,” Marrow said.

Mike bit his tongue and waited impatiently to hear what his boss had to say.

“I’m taking you off all other assignments and putting you on this one. Work with Mr. Tyler to solve your shooting.”

Mike opened his mouth to register his protest, but Marrow gave him a warning look and he clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m sure that between the two of you, you can figure it out rather quickly, and then Mr. Tyler will be out of your hair.”

“You can’t possibly really believe that this is a good idea,” Mike tried in a last ditch effort.

“The sooner you get started, the more quickly you’ll be back to work,” Marrow said, his tone clearly a dismissal.

~*~

“So, what do we do first?” Mike said.

He’d called Martin and filled him in on what was happening. Martin had asked if he could help, but Mike knew that the experience would be frustrating for Martin, having to deal with Ham, so he declined. If Mike hadn’t been concerned with putting Martin in an awkward position, he would’ve accepted the offer just to see the expression on Ham’s face when he found out that Martin would be joining them.

“We’re going to the scene, and you’re going to walk me through it.”

Ham led the way to a black GMC Jimmy.

“I’ll drive. If someone _is_ trying to kill you, better not to make it easy for them to find you.”

Mike couldn’t argue with Ham’s logic, even if he did disagree with the premise it was based on. He followed Ham to the SUV and climbed in without comment. Better to pick his battles, or he’d be arguing with Ham the entire time.

“Marrow said that Martin hadn’t received any hate mail,” Ham observed as he negotiated traffic.

“No,” Mike confirmed.

“If this guy is mad at you for depriving humanity of all the benefits the Visitors promised, I’m surprised that he doesn’t hold Martin, as well as the other members of the Fifth Column, equally responsible.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know that Martin is a member of the Fifth Column.” At Ham’s raised eyebrows, Mike clarified. “After the first week of celebrations, we decided it would be safer for Martin if he didn’t advertize his relationship to the Visitors. Even though the Fifth Column helped us defeat them, some people find it difficult to see past their real nature,” he said wryly, “and differentiate between someone like Martin, and someone like Diana.”

Ham made a face to let Mike know he’d gotten the message. Ham hadn’t been (and most likely still wasn’t) a fan of Martin, or any of the Fifth Column members, no matter the invaluable assistance they’d lent the rebels. If it wasn’t for Martin, Mike himself would never have escaped Diana’s clutches, Julie would never have been rescued, and they’d never have been able to board the mothership to keep Diana from turning it into a thermonuclear weapon capable of destroying the entire planet.

As far as Ham was concerned, a lizard was a lizard. It mattered little that Mike trusted Martin and called him friend. Actually, that was probably a mark against Martin, because Ham thought Mike made decisions with his heart, instead of with his head.

Ham drove them to the courthouse without having to consult Mike as to where the incident had occurred. Marrow must have filled him in on the whole story. Mike had been covering a preliminary hearing for the trial of one of the people named as collaborator. Mike had thought at the time that the bullet may have been meant for Lester James, the defendant, and the gunman was just a really bad shot. He shared that theory with Ham.

Ham grunted. “Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he believed it. “Or he could’ve been a bad shot and missed your heart, or head, or whatever he was aiming at. Either way, we’re not taking any chances.”

Ham parked near the court building and made Mike walk him through the day of the shooting. There had been a few protestors, but not as many as the trial itself would draw. A police line kept the protestors, gawkers, and cameras (including Mike’s) back.

He remembered hearing the gunshot. Adrenaline had pumped through his veins and he’d gone to the sidewalk, dragging Martin down with him. When he’d heard no other shots, Mike had raised his head and continued filming. It was only after most of the screaming crowd had dispersed that Mike felt the sting of the crease in his arm.

After Mike finished going over the events of that day, Ham said, “What other news crews were here?”

“Why?”

“I want to go through all the footage, see if anyone caught the shooter on tape.”

Mike remembered a couple other camera crews being there; anything having to do with the Visitors was big news. They returned to the station and pulled Mike’s tape. They’d start their search for the shooter there, because Mike might have caught something he didn’t realize the import of at the time, since all of his attention had been on Lester James.

There was no sign of the shooter, or anyone acting suspiciously, but in his establishing shots Mike had captured several other film crews. Because they’d been spread out around the courthouse steps, the others had a different angle and might have caught something Mike hadn’t.

“He had to get close enough to hit you in that crowd. Now, if he was a sniper we’d be S.O.L., but we can be pretty certain he wasn’t, because if he had been, your brains would be spattered all over that sidewalk right now.”

Mike shook his head. “So that’s a check in the pro column?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

~*~

They spent the afternoon reviewing footage taken the day Mike had been shot. Ham had told Marrow what they needed, and by the time they grabbed lunch (“You don’t go to the same place everyday, do you?”), the tapes were waiting for them.

Two hours in Mike was tired of watching the same thing over and over again. He was about to tell Ham there was nothing to find when something caught his eye. He leaned forward and stared hard at the screen.

“Saw that, did you?” Ham said.

They watched the scene play itself out, a man pushing his way through the crowd to get nearer the front. But there was no reason he had to be moving closer to Mike; Lester James was still a viable target in Mike’s mind.

When the camera panned away from the man, Ham told him to rewind the tape so they could watch it again, this time noting where he’d entered the frame, but Mike’s finger was already on the button. Now that they had a face, they were able to find the man in the crowd even on the tapes they’d already viewed.

Mike copied each section of tape where they spotted the man so they didn’t have to cue the tapes each time they wanted to rewatch the important bits. Ham created a diagram of where the man first appeared, his progress through the crowd, and his exit along with the rest of the screaming mob.

The man did nothing else to raise their suspicions, and no matter how much they looked, they couldn’t find a car, or any indication that he hadn’t been working alone. If he had even been the shooter; they never spotted a gun, smoking or otherwise.

Still, Mike had to admit, he’d been in a perfect position to fire the shot that had grazed his arm. But that didn’t mean Mike had been the target. Mike’s theory still held; the guy could’ve just been a lousy shot.

“What do we do now?” Mike said.

“Now we get some food and some rest,” Ham said. “Tomorrow morning we’ll meet with my team, see what they’ve been able to dig up.”

“So we’re meeting back here?”

Ham gave him an amused look. “Nice try, Gooder. You’re spending the night with me.”

Mike went hot all over with the images that filled his mind at Ham’s words. He refused to acknowledge either.

“We’re going to your place?”

“I’m not taking the chance that this guy can track us to your place, or mine. We’re staying at a hotel. Don’t worry, Donovan, your boss is covering the cost. And I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

Ham gave Mike the toothy grin that always reminded him of a shark. He never trusted that grin.

“Yeah, but you lie,” Mike said, and Ham’s grin widened.

Mike went red when he realized that he’d just suggested that Ham _wasn’t_ going to act the perfect gentleman.

“Cross my heart,” Ham said, and this time the grin was less shark, and more hyena. He was definitely laughing at Mike, but that didn’t mean he _wouldn’t_ break his so-called promise if it suited his purpose to do so.

Which Mike did not want, because he was through with Ham Tyler.

Mike grabbed the emergency bag he kept in his car, glad that he’d never broken the habit even though he was no longer sent to cover breaking stories around the world on a moment’s notice. He didn’t pay any attention to where they were headed, too caught up in trying to ignore the presence of the man sitting next to him.

Mike whistled when Ham pulled into the hotel parking lot. “Wow. Marrow agreed to pay for this place?”

“Yep,” Ham said as he put the SUV into park. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Mike snorted. He’d seen Marrow haggle over an undocumented fifty cents on an expense report. “I want to be there when you explain it to him.”

“The people who work at a place like this are a little more discerning who they let past the lobby.”

“Discerning?” Mike repeated. “Is that your word of the day?”

“Bite me,” Ham said as he pushed his door open and slid out of the truck. “As I recall, you used to like that.”

The door slammed shut before Mike could respond. Which was just as well, since he didn’t have one handy. Mike got out of the truck and walked around to the back.

“Low blow, Tyler,” he said, reflexively taking the gun Ham handed him.

He automatically checked the gun while Ham placed a couple other guns and extra ammo in his bag.

“You think we’re gonna need all that?” Mike said as he shoved the gun in the back of his waistband and covered it with his jacket.

“I don’t leave anything to chance,” Ham said.

Ham checked them in under the name John Jacob Doughe. If the young man at the reception desk thought two men checking in together was odd, he didn’t let it show when he handed two keys to Ham and told them to enjoy their stay.

“Seriously?” Mike said as they waited for the elevator.

At Ham’s raised eyebrow, Mike said, “John Doughe?”

Ham just grinned.

~*~*~*~

The single room Ham had rented was quite spacious. Most of it was taken up by the king-sized bed and the armoire that held the television. On the other side of the bed was a small desk and a small round table with two chairs. On the near side of the bed was a couch that Mike presumed opened up into a bed, and a coffee table.

“One bed?” Mike commented, and then wished he hadn’t.

“Don’t worry, Gooder, it’s all yours. I’m taking the couch.”

Which meant that Ham was placing himself between Mike and anyone who entered the room. He doubted that Ham would bother to pull out the sofa, or get much sleep.

Mike didn’t want to think about Ham putting his life on the line for him, even if it was unlikely that their investigation would come to anything. He dropped his bag on the bed, tossed his jacket over it, and went to use the bathroom while Ham ordered their dinner off the room service menu.

Mike washed his hands, then rubbed wet hands over his face and through his hair. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, and silently berated his body for reacting as if they were there for any reason other than solving the shooting. Once they’d done that Ham would disappear, just like he always did.

Mike dried his hands and face, and then returned to the room. Ham was sitting at the desk, speaking on the phone and taking notes on the small pad of paper provided by the hotel. Mike hadn’t known what to expect when he stepped back into the hotel room and saw Ham again, (some sort of verbal sparring, certainly), so it felt anti-climactic to have Ham be otherwise occupied, none of his attention on the awkwardness of sharing a room, if not the bed, with Mike.

Mike was at a loss what to do. He could turn on the television, but aside from bothering Ham’s phone call with the noise, Mike would feel uncomfortable sitting on the bed to watch it. So he paced. Ham gave him an annoyed look when Mike went too close to the window, even though he’d closed the curtains.

Mike touched everything, and he opened drawers to check their contents. He found an extra pillow and the remote, as well as the ever present bible.

Ham covered the mouthpiece on the handset and hissed at Mike, “What are you doing?”

Mike shrugged. “I’m bored.”

The expression on Ham’s face was well worth the lecture Mike foresaw.

“What are you, twelve?”

Mike threw himself back on the bed and bounced, much like he thought his twelve year old self might have done. A knock on the door (as well as the uncomfortable press of the gun in his lower back), had Mike jerking upright. Ham placed his hand on Mike’s knee before Mike could stand and gave him a warning look.

“I’ve gotta go,” Ham said into the phone. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Ham hung up the receiver as he rose from the chair, smoothly drawing his gun from the holster under his arm. “Stay back.”

Mike felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, due as much to seeing Ham slip into his professional mode as at the unexpected knock at the door. He couldn’t lie, the leather straps over Ham’s shoulders and across his back might also have had something to do with it.

Mike stood back near the bedside table, out of the direct line of sight of the door, and pulled his own weapon. He checked it, and then stood at the ready as he watched Ham approach the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service, Mr. Doughe,” was the reply, muffled by the door.

Ham backed into the bathroom doorway as he undid the chain and pulled the door open far enough to see who stood outside it.

“Evening,” Ham said pleasantly, pushing the door open all the way. “Come in.”

If he thought it strange, the man (fifty years old and somehow managing to not look ridiculous in the uniform the hotel made him wear) said nothing about Ham standing in the bathroom, or checking the hallway before closing the door behind him. Mike quickly shoved the gun back into his waistband so as not to alarm the room service waiter as he pushed the cart over to the table and emptied plates and cups onto it.

Ham took a few steps into the room, but he remained near the door. He’d reholstered his gun, and was drawing a couple bills out of his wallet to tip the server. The man glanced at the bed (which Mike only now realized looked like it could’ve been mussed by two grown men rolling around on it, rather than one man releasing his inner twelve year old to annoy the other), as he passed, but said nothing about it. He took the folded bills from Ham and thanked him politely.

“I never took you for a big tipper,” Mike said when Ham came back from securing the door.

“I’m not,” Ham said. “They remember big tippers as much as they remember the ones that don’t tip at all. An average tip is forgettable.”

Mike shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

Ham rearranged the chairs around the table so he had his back to the wall and was facing the door. He sat and placed his gun on the table within easy reach.

“Come on and eat,” Ham said, lifting the cover off one of the plates.

The scent of freshly grilled steak filled the room and made Mike’s mouth water. Ham uncovered the second plate, and then switched them. Mike sat and automatically checked the slip that indicated the doneness of the meat. Ham had ordered it just the way he liked it. It threw Mike off a little bit, that Ham knew him so well, and had been able to order without asking Mike his preference.

He didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed that Ham had remembered at all, much less bothered to order it. Maybe Mike was reading too much into it, but he didn’t like the way it made him feel – all tingly, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. As if there was something hiding in the shadows that he could see if only he looked hard enough.

Mike didn’t want to look too hard, so instead he just said, “Thank you,” and dug in.

It had been a while since he’d spent this much time with Ham. Surprisingly, the day hadn’t sucked as much as Mike had expected it to. As many differences as they had, he and Ham had somehow always managed to work well together, and even though they were no longer working up battle plans and shooting at Visitors, that hadn’t changed.

Mike still didn’t believe that anyone was trying to kill him (it wasn’t as if he’d been the face of the resistance; other people, like Julie, had been at the forefront of the Visitor’s defeat), but he couldn’t deny that he got a little thrill out of working with Ham again. Part of that, Mike knew, was due to the fact that he couldn’t turn off the memories of the side benefits that working alongside Ham had carried. He couldn’t be certain whether it was his brain or his body that was being the most stimulated merely from being in Ham’s company again.

Mike savagely reminded himself that Ham had left. Ham always left, even when he promised otherwise.

“You left,” Mike said out loud, surprising himself as much as Ham.

Ham raised his eyebrows as he finished taking a sip of the coffee he’d ordered with their meal.

“After . . . .” It didn’t sound right to say ‘after we won’, because no one really won, not even the people that remained alive had been left untouched by the Visitor’s occupation. “After the red dust, and Diana, and the Visitor’s leaving . . . . You left.”

Mike felt a little bit ridiculous at the accusation in the words, but he couldn’t deny that he’d been hurt by Ham’s disappearance, even though he’d been half expecting it since the moment Ham showed up.

Ham set his coffee cup down. “I don’t play well with others.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Mike replied.

“I don’t make a very good third wheel, either.”

“What?”

“You and Julie looked pretty close,” Ham said. “Happy.”

“Julie? I guess we were happy,” Mike said. “We’d just defeated the Visitors, Diana had been captured . . . . We were just celebrating,” Mike said, though it sounded lame even to his own ears.

“Looked more like you’d decided to go for the white picket fence, after all,” Ham said.

Truth be told, maybe Mike had been hedging his bets a little bit in anticipation of Ham leaving. Maybe Mike hadn’t wanted Ham to know just how much he wanted him to stay, so he didn’t look like a big idiot when Ham eventually left. Just like Mike knew he would.

“Or maybe you were going to leave anyway, and that was a handy excuse,” Mike said, voicing his thoughts.

Ham raised those damned eyebrows again, but before he could say anything in response there was another knock at the door. Mike, angry with himself for letting even a hint of his insecurity over Ham show, jumped up. He reached for the gun still tucked in the back of his jeans and moved towards the door. Before he’d taken two steps Ham was there, blocking his way.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To answer the door,” Mike said.

“I think you’re forgetting which one of us got shot,” Ham said, and emphasized his point by touching Mike’s arm, exerting just enough pressure to remind Mike of the injury, but not to hurt him.

“I can be careful,” Mike said, ignoring the warmth of Ham’s hand spreading out over his skin.

“You can stay back. Or I’ll shoot you myself,” Ham growled.

Ham left Mike standing there and moved to the door, the gun he’d taken from the table held down at his side.

“Who is it?” Ham called through the door after the second, more impatient sounding knock.

“Housekeeping. I’ve got your extra towels.”

“We didn’t request extra towels,” Ham replied.

There was a moment of silence, and then the female voice repeated, “You didn’t request extra towels?”

“No, ma’am, we didn’t.”

“Sorry for bothering you.”

“No problem,” Ham said, but his tone said differently.

Ham didn’t move way from the door after the exchange. He waited a few seconds, probably listening to the woman’s footsteps moving away, Mike thought, and then silently stepped up to the door and put his eye to the peep hole. Ham stepped back and quietly unlocked the door. He eased it open and glanced out the crack, only closing the door and replacing the chain when he was satisfied that the woman wasn’t an assassin sent to kill Mike.

Mike set the gun on the night stand and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised you didn’t drag her in here and interrogate her.”

“If I thought she was a threat, I would have.”

The scary thing was, Mike knew Ham wasn’t joking. Mike had seen Ham in action, knew how focused he could be, but he’d never been the recipient of that concentrated attention before. At least, not outside of their bed, Mike thought, and then immediately berated himself for allowing his thoughts to wander down that path. It was too late, though, to keep his body from going all hot at the memories of just how intense Ham could be in bed.

And of course Ham had to notice Mike’s reaction, damn him.

“Anything you want to share with the class?”

“No,” Mike snarled, fighting the flush he could feel spreading over his skin.

Ham gave Mike a look that said he knew he was lying, but he let it go. Ham finished the cold coffee without a grimace, used to drinking worse in the field, or even at their base when it was Julie’s turn to make it. He set the cup down and then quickly and efficiently stacked the dishes on the cart, and then pushed it to the door. Ham glanced up and down the hall before pulling the door open all the way and pushing the cart out.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Ham told Mike after he’d re-secured the door. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He contemplated running up and down the hallway just to piss Ham off, but he wouldn’t put it past the bastard to cuff him to the bed to keep him from doing anything else Ham considered ‘stupid’.

“Oh, knock it off,” Mike muttered when his dick showed some interest in that scenario.

Mike snatched up the remote he’d found earlier, and sat on the end of the bed to turn on the television. He checked the time, then flipped to channel 6 to catch the late news.

“Anything interesting?” Ham said.

Mike didn’t jump, but only because he’d been listening to Ham in the bathroom as much as the news. “Just more of the same,” he answered.

Mike flipped through the channels until he found ESPN, and then tossed the remote onto the mattress. He’d already used the bathroom before they ate, but he figured one more trip before bed was in order. Besides, it would give him a few extra minutes away from Ham before they had to address the fraught issue of who was sleeping where. Even though Ham had already offered Mike the bed, and called the couch for himself, Mike expected that the actual settling down to sleep would be awkward.

Mike grabbed his toiletries bag out of the duffel and headed for the bathroom. As he passed Ham, Mike couldn’t help but notice that his hair was damp, and the short hairs at the nape of his neck curled under. It reminded him of days spent in the jungle, and nights spent working up a sweat in other, more pleasurable ways. He did not have the urge to reach out and touch them, but Mike curled his fingers into a fist just in case.

Mike relieved himself and readied himself for bed, staying in the bathroom as long as he could without it looking like he was hiding. He turned the light out and stepped out into a room illuminated only by the flickering light from the television screen. It only took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and Mike was thankful for the darkness he could hide behind.

Mike walked around to the other side of the bed, grabbing his bag and dragging it over. He didn’t need anything else out of it, so he tossed it onto the nearest chair. He rolled his sleeves down and darted a glance towards the couch. He could make out Ham’s form in the strange light. Ham had removed his shoulder holster for comfort, but his gun was close to hand on the coffee table right in front of him.

Mike glanced at the night stand, making sure his own gun was where he’d left it. He unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his shoulders. He laid it over the back of the chair, and then picked up the gun to double check it. Satisfied, he set it back down and dropped his hands to his waistband. A tingle between his shoulder blades told him that Ham was watching him, even though Mike couldn’t see his eyes.

Mike felt the heat as his entire body flushed at the thought of Ham’s eyes on him. He unfastened his jeans and pushed them down his thighs, doing his best to ignore his reaction. Mike sat on the edge of the mattress so he could untie his boots. He toed them off and kicked free of his jeans. Mike folded the jeans and added them to the pile on the chair. He pulled the comforter down to the end of the bed, and then pulled the sheet and blanket down.

Mike thought about saying something to Ham, but the last thing he wanted to do was bring attention to their past physical relationship or the fact that the couldn’t stop thinking about it since being unexpectedly thrown into Ham’s company. Mike climbed into bed and got comfortable, and then remembered the television.

“Shit,” he muttered. He didn’t remember seeing the remote on the end of the bed where he’d left it. “Do you have the remote?”

Ham snorted. Mike heard him stand up, and he opened his eyes to watch as Ham fished the remote out from under the comforter Mike had thrown back. The springs in the couch protested when Ham settled his weight back on it. Mike closed his eyes and tried not to recall the way it felt to have Ham spread out over him, weight pressing him into the mattress.

The television went off, and the darkness behind Mike’s eyelids became complete. He was thankful for it until he realized that he was too wound up to relax and find sleep. Mike tossed and turned, first one way, then the other. He pounded the pillow and kicked off the blankets. Mike rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling in the dark of the room and sighed.

“Can’t sleep?” Ham said, stating the obvious.

The question seemed innocuous, but Mike remembered just exactly how they used to work off the tension of the day and relieve insomnia.

“I can sleep just fine,” Mike grated out.

“Then do it.”

Mike had put in a long day, there was no reason he shouldn’t be able to sleep. Except for the presence of the man sharing the room with him. Mike finally bit the bullet and gave up the pretense.

“So, why a security company?”

There was a moment of silence when Mike thought Ham wasn’t going to answer, and then he said, “Because I’m good at it.”

“Too bad the business of covert operations got disrupted,” Mike said, his tone heavy with sarcasm as he tried to create more distance between them.

“If you believe that, then you’re even more naive than I thought you were, Gooder. As soon as the government regained control over the military, that was probably the first department reinstated.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“You got an enemy needs defeating, I’m your man, but I’ve got no interest in the political machinations of setting up puppet governments,” Ham said.

Mike couldn’t deny that Ham was an honorable man, even if he was pig-headed in his belief that he was correct about absolutely _every_ thing. Mike had always found that so damned _annoying_. It was an unattractive trait, and one he hadn’t missed at all.

Just as he hadn’t missed their arguments over doing what was right, versus doing what was expedient. Even if Ham had grudgingly gone along with Mike when he made it clear he was hurtling headlong into danger with or without Ham’s help. Though Ham had kept up a constant barrage of comments pointing out the extent of Mike’s mental deficiencies. But Mike had never been more confident in their chances for success than when he had Ham at his side, and watching his back.

Mike needed to derail that line of thought, so he said, “How long are you in LA?”

“Why, you miss me?”

“No!” Mike said too quickly.

“I live in LA,” Ham said.

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had to swallow hard before speaking. “What?”

“And you call yourself a reporter,” Ham scoffed.

Mike had thought about it, about using his resources to find out where Ham had gone, but he knew that if Ham had returned to this old job he’d be lost in secrecy, and besides, Mike figured it was pretty pathetic, the need he had to discover where Ham had gone. And he’d been in LA all along.

“Why?”

Mike heard, rather than saw Ham’s shrug. “It’s as good a place as any. Besides,” Ham added, “I had unfinished business.”

“Me?” Mike said without thinking, going hot all over at the notion that Ham had stayed in LA because of him, even though he’d thought that Mike had chosen Julie, had chosen the easy, expected path.

Ham, who could face a squad of Visitors without flinching, retreated in the face of having an emotional conversation, no matter that he’d instigated it with his comment.

“Now’s not the time for this. We need to concentrate on finding the man that shot you.”

Mike rolled over and turned on the light beside the bed, then sat up and looked at Ham. He flushed when Ham’s eyes dropped to his chest, but resisted the urge to pull up the sheet and cover himself like some blushing virgin on her wedding night.

“We’ll talk about this now,” Mike said, though his voice went rough and dry at the weight of Ham’s gaze.

“You sure you wanna talk?” Ham said, with enough innuendo to make a saint blush.

Mike’s nipples went hard as he imagined Ham touching them rather than merely looking at them. Ham smirked, and Mike wanted to be annoyed, but instead he just _wanted_.

“No,” Mike said.

It took Ham a few seconds to realize Mike’s meaning, and then his eyes went wide. He shook his head. “No, Gooder.”

But he didn’t sound certain.

“Yes,” Mike said, finding an off-balance Ham a turn on. “You need me to come to you?”

“I need you to stay right where you are so we can both get some sleep,” Ham said. He almost sounded convincing.

Mike ignored him. He tossed the blankets back and threw his legs over the side of the bed.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Gooder,” Ham said with a sneer, but his voice shook just a little bit.

Mike stood, and Ham’s eyes traveled down his body, leaving a trail of fire wherever his gaze touched Mike’s skin. For a second Mike wondered what he was doing, and then Ham’s eyes met his – a warning, a dare. Mike walked around the end of the bed. His knees felt weak, but he made himself walk over to the couch where Ham still sat, unmoving.

Ham had gone still, like a rabbit waiting for the fox to pass. The thought of Ham in the role of the rabbit made Mike smile.

Ham’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so funny?”

“This,” Mike said as he lifted his leg and straddled Ham’s thighs. “Us.”

Mike lowered himself onto Ham’s lap and rocked his hips into him. Ham grasped Mike’s hips and thrust up against him. Mike groaned at the delicious friction his body had been craving all day, ever since he’d seen Ham sitting on Marrow’s couch. Mike chuckled as he imagined the expression on Marrow’s face if he’d done this then.

“Seriously, Donovan?” Ham growled. “I’m getting a complex here.”

Mike laughed, giddy with the feelings rushing through him, with the sensation of Ham against him. Before Ham could snarl at him again, Mike covered his lips with his own, biting them, and licking his way into Ham’s mouth. They kissed until lack of oxygen forced them apart, though Mike didn’t want to stop even then.

He’d missed this, the feel of Ham’s hands on him, strong and callused, the feel of Ham’s body against him, all angles and hard planes, the way Ham surrounded him and took him over, the scent and taste of him . . . . Mike’s eyes flew open as he was jerked out of his internal musings.

“Where’d you go?” Ham demanded softly as he pushed the finger he’d pressed against Mike’s hole in to the first knuckle.

“No–, uh! Nowhere,” Mike whined as Ham eased his finger in all the way. He panted through the burn as he stretched around the dry slide of Ham’s finger.

“Fuck,” Mike groaned. He wiggled his ass, trying to get Ham deeper. “Come on, Tyler!”

Ham chuckled at Mike’s impatience. “Always so eager for it,” he said.

“Shut up and just . . . !”

Mike gasped when Ham found that spot inside him and rubbed it. Little jolts of electricity shot through him as Ham attacked the nub, not giving Mike a chance to catch his breath. Mike pressed his face to the side of Ham’s head, rubbing against him and riding down on his finger.

“I need,” Mike moaned, “I need you to fuck me.”

He thought he should be embarrassed at just how _much_ he needed it, but all Mike could think about was the sensation of Ham’s cock pushing into him, stretching him open.

“We need . . . .”

“Lotion,” Mike suggested, wishing he kept lube in his emergency bag. But he’d seen a small bottle of hand lotion in the bathroom, and that would have to do.

“A condom,” Ham said, and Mike groaned.

“I haven’t,” Mike said, feeling just the slightest twinge as he admitted that there’d been no one since Ham. “Not since . . . .”

“Me neither,” Ham said in his gravelly voice, “but I haven’t been tested, have you?”

“No. Damn it.”

“Grab my bag,” Ham said.

Hope, anticipation bloomed in Mike’s chest. He pulled off Ham’s finger too quickly in his eagerness to grab the bag just out of reach at the other end of the couch.

“Careful!” Ham cautioned as Mike whimpered, but he ignored the sting and concentrated on dragging the bag over and unzipping it.

“Side pocket . . . .”

Mike plunged his hand into the bag and found the correct side pocket after two tries. He closed his fingers around the small bottle and foil packet, and withdrew them with a triumphant grin.

“I thought I was the boy scout,” Mike said.

An expression of . . . something, not quite guilt, crossed Ham’s face, and was gone a split second later. It made him wonder whether Ham always carried the supplies in his bag, or if he put them there for this case specifically. He hadn’t made any moves on Mike, so Mike doubted that he’d had anything _planned_ , but that didn’t mean he hadn’t _wanted_ something to happen. The thought that Ham had maybe hoped for this, as well, made Mike braver.

“Come on,” Mike said, tugging at Ham as he climbed off his lap.

Mike walked over to the bed and tossed the supplies onto the middle of the mattress. He shucked his briefs and crawled onto the bed, moving slowly so that Ham got a nice long look at his ass. (Ham had always liked his ass.) Mike rolled onto his back and looked over at Ham, who hadn’t moved yet, except to press the heel of his hand to his groin.

“You coming, or am I going to have to start without you?” Mike smirked. “Maybe you just like to watch these days?”

Mike spread his legs and reached between them. He cupped his balls with one hand, stroked nipples too long denied with the other. He took his cock in a loose grip, arching into his own touch.

Mike shivered when Ham stood and stalked over to the bed. He felt like the prey to Ham’s predator, even though he’d offered himself up on a silver platter. Ham removed his clothes with sure, efficient motions, though his gaze burned Mike as if he’d held a candle above him, the heat of the flame scorching his skin and searing his brain until the first drop of wax fell and eclipsed all that had gone before.

Mike’s gaze fell upon each inch of skin Ham revealed, and he ached to touch it, to feel it against his own. Suddenly the light touch on his cock wasn’t enough. Mike reached for the bottle. He squirted lube onto his fingers, then drew his knees up and reached between his legs. He touched himself with slick fingers, spread the lube around his hole, then pressed one finger inside him.

Ham growled as he toed off his last boot and removed his sock. He climbed onto the bed between Mike’s legs, pushed his knees back further, and just _looked_. Mike went even hotter as Ham watched him finger himself open.

“You always were an impatient, greedy little bitch,” Ham said. He touched Mike where he stretched around his own finger. “Now, now, now,” Ham went on. “More.” He pressed his finger in alongside Mike’s.

Mike groaned as he stretched around the additional intrusion. Ham bent over Mike and took a nipple between his lips as his finger found the already abused spot inside him. Mike moaned, caught between both areas of stimulation.

Mike swore as Ham eased a second finger inside him, stretching Mike around three digits. Ham covered Mike’s mouth and took the sounds he made into his own as he concentrated his attention on that spot inside him that made Mike think he might shake apart with the intensity of the sensations Ham’s touch created.

“You ready for more?” Ham asked, though he kept a steady pressure on the nub that made it difficult for Mike to think, much less speak.

“Yes,” Mike finally managed to get out, though it sounded like he’d swallowed ground glass. “Your cock.”

Mike fumbled among the tangled sheets for the condom. He tore the foil with his teeth, and reluctantly withdrew his finger from along Ham’s so he could use both hands to remove the condom from the packet and roll it down over Ham.

“Come on, come on,” Mike said when Ham didn’t move fast enough to place himself in Mike’s hands.

Ham chuckled and drove his fingers into Mike. Mike groaned, but he refused to be distracted from his purpose, no matter how amazingly good it felt, or how much he wanted to just fuck himself on Ham’s fingers.

Mike got the condom unrolled, and reached for the lube. He squirted it onto his fingers until it dripped off onto the sheets. Mike wrapped his fingers around Ham and stroked, coating him with the slick. Ham groaned and pushed into Mike’s hand before pulling his hips back until he slipped free.

“If you don’t stop that I’m going to come before I get inside you,” Ham said, but he seemed in no hurry to remove his fingers from Mike’s ass.

“Then get inside me, already,” Mike demanded impatiently.

Ham grinned, all teeth, and moved his fingers in Mike. Slow, deliberate strokes, just because he could. Mike knew words would fall on deaf ears, as Ham delighted in drawing out Mike’s torture and making him beg. Besides, actions spoke louder than words. Mike dragged Ham down for a kiss and reached between them for his slick length.

Ham groaned into Mike’s mouth as Mike stroked him, and drove his fingers more purposefully into Mike’s ass. Mike couldn’t help moaning, and wiggling on Ham’s fingers. Only Ham’s weight on top of him kept Mike from thrashing wildly on the bed as Ham massaged his prostate. He tightened his grip, used his thumb to rub the spot beneath the head of Ham’s cock, and wondered which of them would break first.

“I’m so close,” Mike rasped, his fingers loosening around Ham as he concentrated on chasing his own orgasm.

“The hell you are,” Ham growled. He raised up and encircled the base of Mike’s cock with his fingers even as he kept up the pressure on Mike’s prostate.

“Fuck,” Mike groaned, caught between intense pleasure and the denial of his release. “You bastard.”

Ham grinned. “You’re not gonna come until I let you, Gooder.”

Ham gave that spot one last stroke before withdrawing his fingers from Mike’s ass. He brushed Mike’s hand aside, then lined himself up, blunt head pressing against Mike’s hole.

Ham waited just long enough to draw a, “Come on!” from Mike, and then, grinning, he pushed inside him.

The grin fell off his face as he sheathed his thickness inside Mike’s body. Mike groaned as Ham kept sliding inside him, filling him up, until his balls slapped against Mike’s ass.

Mike had missed this when it was denied him, but he never quite remembered just how fucking amazing it felt to have Ham all around him like this. Probably just as well, or he’d never be able to think about anything else but having it again. Bad enough how often thoughts of Ham filled his mind as it was.

Now that Ham was inside him, Mike knew it wasn’t going to take long. Ham talked a good game, but inside Mike’s ass was the one place Ham didn’t have control over himself. No matter how much he tried to stave off his orgasm, his efforts were doomed to failure, and sooner rather than later. Mike couldn’t even take a few minutes to enjoy Ham’s loss of control, too caught up in achieving his own release.

Ham claimed Mike’s mouth as completely and thoroughly as he claimed Mike’s ass, and Mike surrendered to it. He hadn’t realized until it was within his grasp just how much he needed this. He met Ham’s tongue thrust for thrust, and wrapped his leg around Ham’s hip, driving himself onto Ham as eagerly and as desperately as Ham pounded into him.

They gasped for air and panted against each other’s faces as they worked towards a common goal. Ham reached between them, and for a moment Mike feared that Ham would deny him once more. Mike made sounds that would embarrass himself come morning as Ham gripped him tight and stripped him just the way Mike liked it.

Mike pushed up and drove himself down, caught between the twin pleasures wrought by hand and cock.

“Gonna come for me, Gooder?” Ham rasped in Mike’s ear, and the minuscule part of Mike’s brain that thought to rebel blinked out of existence like a light bulb in a solar flare as his release rushed through him, starting at his toes, the tips of his fingers, and expanding until it hit him like a wave crashing into the sand.

And then there was nothing.

~*~*~*~

Mike woke once in the night, clean and warm and safe in Ham’s arms. He fell back to sleep, and only woke again when his bladder demanded it of him. He ignored Ham, already fully dressed and on the phone at the desk, as he staggered out of bed and to the bathroom. Every step he took reminded him of what they’d done the night before.

Mike relieved himself and then splashed his face with cold water to aid in the waking up process. He froze mid-motion when he noticed the marks on his chest. He glanced down and saw more, on his belly, his hip. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten them, but he was afraid to look any further.

Mike turned on the water and stepped into the shower. He couldn’t return to the room with his discovery so fresh on his mind. There was no way he could look at Ham with the proof of what they’d done the night before writ across his body. Mike stayed hidden in the bathroom as long as he could, until he feared Ham would come looking for him if he took any longer.

It was only after he’d dried off that Mike realized the flaw in his plan. Mike sighed as he wrapped the towel around his waist. He walked out of the bathroom in a plume of steam and goosebumps broke out on his skin when he hit the cooler air in the hotel room. Ham met him at the end of the bed with a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” Mike said.

The scent was tantalizing, and Mike took a grateful sip. When he lowered the cup Ham was still standing in front of him, his eyes on the marks he’d left on Mike’s skin. He raised his hand and touched his fingertips to the marks.

“Sorry,” Ham said, as he traced a path between the marks.

“Yeah,” Mike said dryly,” I’d find that more believable if you didn’t sound quite so smug.”

“Who, me?” Ham grinned. “Get dressed, Gooder, we’ve got a meeting.”

Mike walked around the bed and set his coffee cup on the night stand after taking another sip. He dug through his bag for clean clothes. Mike debated trying to pull briefs on under his towel, but he could see Ham’s smirk in his minds eyes, and hear his amused, ‘I’ve already seen it all before, Gooder.’

Mike dropped the towel and quickly stepped into his underwear, ignoring the phantom touch of Ham’s eyes as they moved over his naked body. Mike pulled on his jeans and a shirt, then sat on the edge of the mattress to put on socks and boots. He saw the clock on the night stand and noticed that it was later than he’d thought. He blushed when he realized that Ham had let him sleep in rather than rousting him out of bed at some ungodly hour. That small courtesy felt more intimate to Mike than anything they’d done the night before.

Mike stood and buttoned his shirt, then tucked the ends into his jeans before fastening the fly. He folded his dirty clothes and shoved them into the bag. Mike tried not to recall how eagerly he’d shucked them the night before when he added his briefs to the bag. Mike packed his toiletries, then checked the gun before shoving it into his waistband and covering it with his jacket.

“I’m ready,” Mike said.

“You wanna finish your coffee?” Ham said.

Mike did – it had been damned good coffee – but he already felt off-balance, as if he should be indebted to Ham for allowing him the extra minutes to sleep, and he didn’t want to exacerbate it by making him wait while Mike finished his coffee. Plus, it felt too much like old times, when Ham would get Mike a cup of coffee when he poured his own, whether they were at dinner, a meeting, or still in bed.

“No,” Mike said, throat suddenly dry at the memory. “I’m good.”

Mike picked up his bag to emphasize the point that he was ready to leave. Ham just looked at him as he finished his own coffee in one swallow. Mike tried not to fidget under his regard. Ham set the cup down and stood. He put on his black leather jacket, covering the shoulder holster that made Mike’s belly twist, but before he picked up his bag Ham turned to Mike.

“I didn’t leave last time,” Ham said. He didn’t add the, “you did,” but his eyes said it for him. “I won’t be leaving this time. What happens next is up to you.”

It was more than Mike had ever expected Ham to say, almost more than he could deal with. It had been easy when he could blame the fact that they hadn’t worked out on Ham leaving, rather than admitting that he’d been afraid to try.

Ham shouldered his bag and headed for the door. Belatedly Mike followed him, catching the door just before it closed. The ride down to the lobby and the walk out to the Jimmy were made in silence. Mike didn’t say anything until they pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru and Ham ordered enough for an army.

When Mike said as much, Ham replied, “For the meeting. If I feed them there’s less bitching.”

Mike shook his head. “Why don’t you just admit you’re being nice?”

Ham growled at Mike, then dumped the bags into his lap as they were handed out the window. Mike was distracted by the scents wafting from the bags, and soon they pulled into a parking lot. It was an apartment complex with buildings lining three sides of the parking lot; the other side open to the road. The apartment Ham pulled up in front of had a T&F Security sign beside the door.

Mike raised his eyebrows at Ham, who shrugged. “It used to be a locksmith.” He didn’t have to say what had happened to the former owner. “Manager was glad to have on-site security, and we got a break on the rent.”

Ham grabbed their bags out of the back and Mike carried in the McDonald’s bags. Mike followed Ham through the door, so he heard the rest of Ham’s team before he saw them.

“Do I smell food?” a male voice asked.

“That depends,” Ham said as he deposited their bags to the side of the door. “Is there fresh coffee in the pot?”

“Here you go, boss,” a cute little redhead said as she handed a cup of coffee to Ham.

“Kiss ass,” another male voice muttered.

“Bite me, Hernandez,” the woman said with a smile she must have learned from Ham. She turned away from them, but not before sparing a glare for Mike, as if she’d read his earlier thoughts.

“Everything ready?” Ham said after he took a sip of the coffee.

“We’re set up in the conference room,” the guy that was apparently named Hernandez said.

Ham nodded. He turned to Mike and took one of the bags of food from him, replacing it in his hand with the cup of coffee. Mike took a sip of the steaming, fragrant liquid before he could think what the familiar, intimate gesture might look like to the others.

Mike relinquished the second bag and followed Ham towards the conference room, which had originally been the living room. Across from the conference room, in what had most likely been intended to be the dining room, were two desks. Half the top of one desk was taken up by a computer. Behind that was the kitchen, where the as yet unidentified man was stacking coffee cups, spoons, sugar and milk on a tray.

He set the tray in the middle of the table that took up much of the conference room, and then poured the coffee into a carafe and set another pot dripping. The scents of brewing coffee and breakfast sandwiches made Mike’s stomach growl.

“Get over here and eat something, Gooder,” Ham said.

The sandwiches were dumped out on the table and everyone grabbed for them. Mike held back until he was certain he wouldn’t lose a hand. It took less than ten minutes to demolish the sandwiches. They ate in silence, and Mike took the opportunity to study the offices more closely.

Maps were tacked to the walls of the conference room, along with a bulletin board, and a blackboard stood in the corner. He let his attention fall on the rest of Ham’s team, and realized that they were all armed.

Ham gathered up the bags and wrappers and carried them to the kitchen. He refilled the carafe from the fresh pot and started another. Mike slouched in his seat and watched Ham move about, comfortable in this space, and with these people Mike had never met. It felt like forever since he’d seen Ham this relaxed, performing homey, if not quite domestic, tasks. Not even the sensation of the woman’s eyes boring into him could make Mike look away.

“Okay,” Ham said as he settled into the chair next to Mike’s, refilling his cup and Mike’s before offering the carafe to the others. “Let’s get started; introductions first.”

“Mike Donovan, our client . . . .”

“I’m not your client,” Mike corrected automatically.

“Correction,” Ham said, the word laced with enough sarcasm to make Mike roll his eyes. “Our reluctant protect _ee_. Our client is his boss. Donovan doesn’t believe anyone’s trying to kill him.”

“Does he at least believe that someone is trying to _shoot_ him?” the woman asked.

She’d clearly learned her sarcasm at Ham’s knee as well.

“He believes that the shooter was trying to shoot _someone_ , most likely Lester James, and he was just a really bad shot.”

The way Ham said that made it clear what he thought about Mike’s belief.

“ _He_ is sitting right here,” Mike reminded them.

Everyone ignored him, and Ham continued with the introduction. The redhead’s name was Reagan Mayes, Hernandez’s first name was Carlos, and the other man was named Albert Rollins.

“Okay,” Ham concluded the introductions. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

“We began with the largest and top rated hospitals, moving those that specialized in cancer care and treatment to the top of the list,” Rollins said. “We contacted thirty, got information from twenty-seven.”

“So far we’ve found fifteen deaths from cancer in the last six months in the Los Angeles area,” Mayes added.

“I created a database,” Hernandez said. He tossed a stack of printouts into the middle of the table.

Ham slid over two, picked one up and left the other for Mike to look at .

“Name of the victim and date of death,” Hernandez pointed out, “as well as address and next of kin where available.”

“What about the other hospitals?” Ham asked.

“I’m going to hit more today,” Rollins said. “Rea was going to hack DMV to get addresses on the others.”

“And I’m checking the phone book; I think I can beat her,” Hernandez said.

“What’s riding on the outcome?” Ham asked.

“Dinner,” Mayes said.

“That seems pretty tame,” Rollins commented.

“She’ll be _cooking_ me dinner,” Hernandez said with a grin.

“In your dreams,” Mayes retorted. “I’m gonna kick his ass,” she assured Ham.

“Be careful,” Ham drawled, “I think he likes that.”

“You know,” Mike said, “the letter and the shooting, even if I was the target, don’t have to be connected.”

“Agreed,” Ham said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Okay, then, why just concentrate on deaths from cancer?” Mike said, playing devil’s advocate. “He mentioned other diseases in the letter.”

“True,” Ham said, “but he specifically mentioned cancer, which indicated that one means something special to him, it’s more personal.”

Mike nodded. Ham got up and withdrew a folder from his bag. He opened the folder and pulled out the copy of the death threat Marrow had given him. “Make a copy of this for the board,” he said, dropping it on the table. Rollins was moving before Ham had finished speaking. “And about a half dozen of this.”

There was a moment of silence when they saw the still of the suspected gunman, and then all three hand shot out. Mayes was quickest.

“You got a photo,” she said.

“We think,” Mike cautioned.

She shot him a glare for ruining her happy moment, but subsided when Ham agreed.

“The evidence against him is very circumstantial; some suspicious behavior. Unfortunately, he wasn’t stupid enough to wave a gun around, even if it would have made our job easier.”

Mayes handed the picture to Rollins, and he went to make the requested copies. Ham filed a copy of each in his folder; Rollins tacked a copy of each onto the bulletin board. The other copies of the photo were spread out on the table.

“Fax a copy to Farber,” Ham said.

“On it,” Hernandez replied.

“Drop off a copy to Hicks and Nolan when you’re out,” Ham told Rollins.

Rollins nodded.

“And each of you keep a copy on you. We’re going on the assumption that he’s lost someone recently, someone he’s close to, which is what pushed him over the edge, but he may know someone who was just diagnosed, or . . . .”

“What do we do if that’s the case?” Mike said. “If none of these names pan out?” He tapped the list of names Hernandez had compiled.

“Then we expand our search.”

“That’s going to take a while,” Mike said.

“What’s the matter, Gooder, don’t want to spend more time with me?”

Mike glared at Ham in silence, but it didn’t stop the flush from creeping up his neck as the memory of just how they’d spent some of that time filled his mind. Mayes snorted, but no one was brave (or stupid) enough to say anything in front of Ham.

“Have the others checked in?” Ham said, deftly changing the subject.

“Yep, right on time,” Rollins said.

“All quiet on the western front,” Hernandez added.

“Okay,” Ham said. “Let’s get started then.”

Ham pushed his chair back, and at that signal the meeting broke up. Mayes and Hernandez each grabbed a photo off the table and took their copy of the list of names over to the desks. Mayes sat at the desk with the computer, and booted it up. Hernandez went to the other desk, sitting only after he’d dumped a pile of phone books on the corner. His first task was to insert the photo into the fax machine that sat on the other corner of the desk. Rollins disappeared into the back.

“Before we go I need to . . . .”

“Down the hall,” Ham said. “Give me your gun before you go,.”

“You think I’m going to accidentally shoot myself in the foot while I’m peeing?” Mike said as he stood.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Ham said, “but no. I need to check them in, and then decide what we need to take with us.”

Mike pulled the gun out of his waistband, and the extra clip out of his jacket pocket, and laid them in Ham’s hand. They both walked down the short hallway. Ham pointed out the bathroom, then the door just past it.

“Meet me in there when you’re done.”

Mike did his business quickly, and went next door to meet Ham. When he reached the doorway Ham had indicated, Mike stopped in surprise. The room was filled with guns and other weapons – hanging on the wall, sitting on shelves or inside the currently open safe. Mike saw hand guns and rifles, automatic weapons and grenades, blocks of C4 and even a missile launcher. Mike whistled, and Ham glanced up at him through his lashes without stopping what he was doing.

“Your own armory. Is some of this stuff even legal?” Mike said as he walked into the room.

Ham just raised his eyebrows and ignored Mike’s question.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”

Mike took the gun and clip Ham held out to him, and then Ham zipped up the duffel he’d packed several other weapons into. He picked the bag up and Mike followed him out of what had once been a bedroom. In the hall they met up with Rollins, who had come out of the room across the hall, that appeared to still _be_ a bedroom. He’d traded jeans and t-shirt for a suit and tie.

“Wow,” Mike said. “Some transformation.”

“Gotta look the part,” Rollins said with a smile.

They followed Rollins to the front of the apartment. Mike watched him pick up a brief case and open it so that he could stick a copy of the photo into one of the pockets, and then he slipped on a pair of glasses. With just those few changes Mike barely recognized him from the man who’d sat at the conference table with them earlier. He’d removed the shoulder holster he’d worn, but Mike noticed the way his slacks fell over the ankle holster he now sported.

Ham followed Mike’s glance, then said to him, “Never go anywhere unarmed.”

“Another rule you live by?” Mike said.

“A rule I’ve stayed alive because of,” Ham replied.

Ham spread a map out on the conference table. They compared the list of names to the map and worked out a plan of attack so they weren’t cris-crossing the city unnecessarily. Ham handed the list and map to Mike, and then grabbed a radio from the charger.

“We’re starting in Pasadena,” Ham told Mayes and Hernandez. “Keep in touch.”

“Will do, boss,” Hernandez answered for both of them.

Ham stowed the duffel bags in the trunk of the Impala, which they took so they’d blend in better, and then pointed the car towards Pasadena.

“How are we doing this?” Mike said as he looked at the name on the list that Ham had written ‘#1' next to. “I mean, we can’t just walk up and show them the picture, can we?”

“You could be doing a piece on the care and treatment of cancer victims in this country,” Ham suggested.

“I don’t have my camera.”

“Maybe you’re just checking to see if they’d be interested in participating, being interviewed, telling their story.”

“Why didn’t I call first?”

“People hang up on you if you call first.”

They used the cover story Ham had come up with. While Mike was talking with Harold Kleinberger at their first stop, a man who’s wife had died of cancer just a month ago, two weeks before Mike had received the threatening letter, Ham ‘accidentally’ let the photo slip from the file. The only reaction Mr. Kleinberger had was the brief pause in his story of how nice and attentive the nurses had been so he could bend down, pick up the photo, and return it to Ham.

When they got back in the car Mike was wrung out from just listening to the man talk about how hard it had been to watch his wife fade away. At their next stop the victim, Kasey Jones, had been 6 years old.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore, the cover story,” Mike said.

“Yeah,” Ham agreed. “It’s taking way too long to get the information we need.”

Mike opened his mouth to berate Ham for his callousness, but the tick in the corner of his jaw told Mike that Ham wasn’t feeling as cold as he’d sounded. Besides, Ham was right. They’d never get through even the partial list they had at this rate.

They came up with a cover story that would get them in and out more quickly, and also be less heart wrenching for the families. And the two of them, no matter that Ham tried to hide his feelings.

They marked three more names off the list before hitting another drive-thru for lunch. They ate in the parking lot while Ham touched base with his office. He had to use a payphone, since the radio was out of range. He filled in a couple more addresses on the list, and when he got back into the car Mike unfolded the map across the dashboard so they could mark them on there.

They managed to cross off five more names before calling it quits. Mike was frustrated that it was taking so long because every day spent trying to solve this case was a day he wasn’t working. Still, he couldn’t deny the flutter in his belly when he thought about spending another night in a hotel room with Ham.

Instead of driving back to the office, Ham pulled in to the parking lot of the first motel they came to after deciding to call it a night. Ham checked them in under the name Jimmy Bonderman, and then they walked to the diner next door and filled up on grease, sugar and bitter coffee.

“Seriously?” Mike said as they crossed the cracked pavement. “James Bond?”

Ham just grinned at him.

~*~*~*~

Ham didn’t even try to be quiet. In fact, Mike thought as he panted for air and squirmed on Ham’s fingers, it appeared that he was doing his very best to make sure that Mike was as noisy as possible. Mike imagined the people in the rooms on either side of theirs hearing them – the creaking of the bed, the sounds Mike couldn’t muffle when Ham touched him right _there_.

Mike groaned – loudly – and Ham hummed his approval around Mike’s dick.

“Fuck . . . you . . . _fuck_ ,” Mike groaned as every muscle in his body went taut before his cock pulsed on Ham’s tongue, filled Ham’s mouth with his release.

Mike went limp, but Ham’s fingers didn’t stop their attack. He licked Mike’s come off lips curved up in a self-satisfied grin as he continued to massage Mike’s prostate.

“Yeah,” Ham said as Mike quivered with every stroke. “Gonna make you come again, Gooder.”

Mike didn’t think that was possible, no matter how much his body responded to Ham’s touch, like a puppet on the string held firmly in Ham’s hand, but he didn’t say that out loud because Ham would take it as a challenge, and Mike might never get out of this bed. Not that he was complaining, Mike thought, as the muscles in his thighs trembled.

Mike must have lost some time, because suddenly Ham carefully pulled his fingers out of him and then pressed the head of his cock against Mike’s stretched hole. Ham pushed the head of his cock past the ring of muscle, and then, with short thrusts, fucked the head of his cock in and out of Mike’s ass as he renewed the attack on Mike’s nipples he’d put on hold to swallow his cock down and milk him dry.

Mike arched up into Ham’s mouth even as he tried to force Ham’s dick further inside him. “Tyler, damn it!” Mike finally swore out his frustration.

Mike felt more than heard Ham’s satisfied chuckle as his breath feathered across Mike’s abused nipples, sending tendrils of pleasure straight to his cock. Mike groaned as his cock twitched and filled, and still Ham didn’t give him what he needed, merely continued to play with him, to give Mike just enough to make him want more.

Ham released Mike’s nipple and sat back on his knees. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and one drop escaped to run down past his ear. The damp ends of his hair curled around his face.

Ham pushed Mike’s legs back, opened him up wider, and bit his bottom lip as he watched the head of his cock move in and out of Mike’s entrance, teasing him with what he could have if Ham would just . . . .

“Fuck. Me,” Mike demanded, ignoring the way he whimpered when Ham gave his hips a devastatingly effective twist.

“Ask me nice,” Ham said with a sadistic grin, bending down to lick the drop of pre-come off the tip of Mike’s cock.

“Fuck me _now_ , and I won’t shoot you _later_ ,” Mike said.

Ham’s grin was feral. “I’ve seen you shoot, Gooder. I’m not worried.”

Mike opened his mouth to say something scathing, or pithy, or both, but Ham slid all the way inside him and stole the thoughts right out of his brain. Ham bent over Mike and covered his lips with his own, stealing the whimper right out of his mouth.

“Happy now?” Ham said when he’d released Mike’s lips so they could both breathe.

He moved his hips slowly, sliding all the way in, and then pulling out, giving Mike exactly what he’d asked for, but not what he needed.

“I really am going to shoot you,” Mike said, which just made Ham’s grin widen.

“In your dreams, Donovan.”

“In my dreams you actually . . . . Oh!” Mike moaned when Ham slammed into him.

“I actually what?” Ham drawled.

“Do that again,” Mike demanded. Or tried to.

Ham chuckled at Mike’s desperate plea, but he complied, pounding into Mike as sweat dripped onto Mike’s skin. Ham bent down and claimed Mike’s mouth again, only releasing him when they both became too distracted by the feelings building inside them. Mike slid his hands over Ham’s back, damp with the proof of his effort, and he panted against Ham’s lips as Ham’s own breaths feathered over his face.

Mike’s cock was caught between their bellies, but there wasn’t enough friction to get him off. He slipped his hand between them and curled his fingers around himself.

“Gonna come for me, Gooder?” Ham said, sounding way too smug.

Mike thought he should probably call him on it, no sense letting Ham think he could get the upper hand, but when he opened his mouth what came out was a long, drawn out, “Yes.”

“Good boy,” Ham said. “Wish you obeyed me as well when you’re fully dressed.”

“In _your_ dreams,” Mike said, ignoring Ham calling him a good boy in favor of chasing his release.

“You have no idea, Gooder,” Ham said in his rough voice. “You have no idea.”

Mike groaned. His orgasm had been building slowly, but suddenly it was right there. Mike stroked himself once more, and then he came, warm fluid spurting out between them and coating their skin.

Ham growled against Mike’s mouth as he rode the wave of pleasure. When Mike went limp beneath him, Ham started moving again. He spoke, but Mike was floating with the afterglow, so he only caught a word here and there – _tight_ and _good_ and _love_ – until Ham fell silent, his entire body going still, and then his hips jerked against Mike’s ass as he spilled inside him.

They didn’t move for a long time. Ham grew heavy, but Mike didn’t want to lose the feel of Ham’s body covering his, the closeness he felt in that moment to the other man. Ham finally moved, and Mike immediately missed the warmth of him. As well as the skin it felt like Ham took with him when he peeled their come-covered bodies apart.

“Ow,” Mike mumbled.

Ham carefully pulled out of him, and Mike felt that loss, as well.

Ham disposed of the used condom, and then laid down beside Mike, an arm and leg covering him. “We should clean up,” he said, but he made no move to get up and actually do so.

“Mmm,” Mike agreed, and curled into Ham’s hold.

~*~

Mike stood on the sidewalk in front of their motel room and spread his arms, raising his face to the sun. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he said, ignoring the grass growing through the cracks in the pavement, the fast food wrapper skittering across the parking lot, and the cigarette butts littering the gutter.

Ham grunted as he passed Mike and dumped their bags into the trunk. Mike grinned.

“I thought you were a morning person, Tyler.”

“I am, when I actually get some sleep.” Ham slammed the trunk shut.

This time it was Mike’s grin that widened. “You complaining?”

Ham glared at Mike over the roof of the car as he opened the driver’s side door. “About the lack of sleep, or the blow jobs?”

“Either,” Mike said gleefully as he joined Ham in the car.

“Bite me, Donovan,” Ham snarled as he turned the key in the ignition.

“Kinky,” Mike said, holding on as Ham backed out of their parking space.

~*~

By the time they broke for lunch, three things had colluded to ruin Mike’s good mood, and that list didn’t even include Ham’s driving. A lack of success, despite crossing five more names off the list, drive-thru coffee that sat in his stomach like acid, and the grin Ham was wearing, which had grown bigger with each shift as Mike tried to find a comfortable position in the passenger seat. Aggravated by Ham’s smug, “You asked for it.”

Ham found a payphone and checked in with the office. He looked grim when he returned to the car.

“What’s wrong?”

“You got another letter,” Ham said shortly.

“Where are we going?” Mike said as Ham pulled out and headed in the opposite direction.

“Back to the office,” Ham replied sourly.

“What did the letter say?”

“Marrow’s faxing it over,” Ham said.

Though Mike could tell that Ham knew more than he was telling, he refused to say anything further about it. The drive back to Ham’s offices seemed longer for the tense silence filling the car.

At T&F Security, Mayes picked up the fax off her desk and handed the sheet to Ham. He read it, lips pursed unhappily, and then held it out to Mike. Mike took the fax from Ham and slowly read it. He read it a second time, just to make sure it said what he thought it said.

“Sean,” Mike said as the fax rolled up in his hand.

“Sean’s fine,” Ham said with a certainty that eased Mike’s mind and lessened the fear in his heart, though he had no idea where it came from. “Farber’s on him.” Ham turned back to Mayes. “Has he been updated?”

“I left a message for him at his motel,” Mayes told them.

“Don’t rely on them to remember to give him the message; call every hour if you have to.”

“Will do, boss.”

“Julie!” Mike said out of the blue.

Ham raised his eyebrows.

“She could be in danger,” Mike explained.

“We’ve got guys on her,” Ham said, no indication in his voice or expression how he felt about protecting the woman he’d thought Mike loved.

“You . . . . Oh.” Mike was full of adrenaline after reading the letter and realizing the danger his loved ones could be in, with nowhere to spend it. “What do we do now?”

“Same thing we’ve been doing,” Ham said.

“I can’t just . . . sit here . . . doing nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing,” Ham said.

“I need to be there, with Sean.”

“And do what? Sit outside the gate and check everyone who visits? For how long? We’re doing what we need to do – we’re looking for this guy, and we’re going to find him.”

“You don’t know that,” Mike said. “We can’t even be sure that guy’s the shooter, and even if he is, he might not be the person who sent the letters.”

“You really still believe that?” Ham said.

Mike smoothed out the fax and read it again. “. . . take from you the things you love most, make you feel the same pain I feel every day . . . .”

“Come on,” Ham said, touching Mike’s shoulder as he passed him.

Ham and Mayes sat at the conference table with an updated list of names. Ham marked off the ones he and Mike had already visited, as well as the ones Hernandez had visited that morning. Mike marked the new names on the map, crossed off the ones Hernandez had visited, and they chose the area they’d cover next.

“Ready?” Ham said.

Mike stood, eager to get back out there. He hadn’t thought there was much to the threats when they were aimed at him, not even after being grazed by a bullet he figured had been meant for someone else, but now that the threat had been extended to his son, Mike was even more motivated to find the man who’d written those letters, and possibly shot him.

“How’d you know?” Mike said. “That Sean and Julie might be in danger.”

“Just covering all bases,” Ham said. “I had to act as if the threats were real, no matter what you believed.”

Mike shook his head. “You knew they were real.” In his stubborn desire to disregard the threats, Mike could’ve put Sean and Julie in danger.

“Someone _shot_ you,” Ham growled, which Mike refused to admit was a bit of a turn on, even now. “You’re damned right I took that seriously.”

Mike wondered how he’d never realized that much of Ham’s impatience and gruffness was born out of concern for him.

“Let’s go get this guy,” Ham said.

“Boss!” Mayes called over. “Wait.”

Ham turned to her, his impatience showing. “What is it?”

“Al’s on the phone; he’s found him.”

“He what?” Ham said as he moved over to the desk. “Put it on speaker.” Mayes did, and Ham growled, “Rollins?”

“Hey, boss,” Rollins said, excitement coloring his tone. “I’m pretty sure I’ve found him.”

“Where are you?”

“Children’s Hospital. I had to stop back to get their list; they had some red tape I couldn’t charm my way through.”

“His child a patient there?”

They’d been operating under the presumption that the death of someone close to the letter writer had pushed him over the edge, but as Ham had mentioned once before, it could just as easily have been the diagnosis of a loved one, or even watching them suffer through a treatment that was almost as horrific as the disease itself.

“I don’t think so, boss . . . .” Rollins said.

“What _do_ you think?” Ham growled.

“I think he works here.”

“Works there,” Ham repeated.

“My guess is he’s a nurse.”

Someone in the health care field who had probably watched as hundreds of people – worse, children – had lost their lives after struggling with the disease.

“Where is he now?” Ham asked.

“Looks like he just punched in for his shift,” Rollins said.

“We need to get a look at that list,” Ham said.

“Already got it, boss.”

“What happened two weeks ago?”

There was a moment of silence while Rollins checked his list.

“Jillian Hart, 9 years old, died. She’d been in remission for two years, then it came back.”

“Shit,” Ham muttered softly, then, “I need you to stay there and keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”

“What if he spots me?”

“Don’t let him,” Ham said, and then he turned to Mike. “Let’s go.”

~*~

The trip to Sunset Boulevard seemed to take forever, even with the way Ham drove. When they reached the hospital Mike wanted to rush right in, but he knew that would only draw unwanted attention to them. At the front desk Ham turned on his rarely seen charm. Seeing it in action, Mike thought if he’d used it more often, they might have ended up in bed together a lot sooner.

“Good afternoon,” Ham said to the middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk. “We’re supposed to meet Mr. Rollins, the gentleman who’s doing the study on . . . .”

“Oh, I know Mr. Rollins,” the woman said, blushing, which made Mike wonder just how much charm _he’d_ turned on. “You both work with him?”

“We do,” Ham said, smile sliding towards the shark end of the spectrum.

“Mike Donovan,” Mike said, extending his hand to the woman before she could become alarmed.

“The reporter,” she said, taking Mike’s hand.

“That’s right,” Mike said, smiling harmlessly and resisting the urge to tell her that he was a newsman. “Mr. Rollins believes this is a matter that should receive national attention, rather than being relegated to professional journals where he’s preaching to the choir, so to speak.”

“That sounds just like him,” the woman said, pushing a strand of dirty blonde hair behind her ear, though she couldn’t have met Rollins more than twice, and for only a few minutes each time. Mike was impressed, despite the seriousness of the situation.

The woman directed them to where they could find Rollins, and Ham stalked off to the elevators before she’d finished speaking. Mike thanked her, and followed Ham. Mike smiled as they stood waiting for the elevator.

“What?” Ham growled.

Mike’s smile widened. “Did that hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

“Being nice.”

“Nice doesn’t get the job done,” Ham said as he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the floor they needed.

Neither does scaring people to death, Mike thought, but he just said, “Sometimes is does.” He stepped into the car before the doors closed. “You know what they say about flies and honey.”

“That’s a stupid saying,” Ham said. “Who actually _wants_ more flies?”

~*~

They stepped off the elevator and followed the signs to the waiting room. Ham glanced down the hall as they passed through an intersection, and then he pushed Mike through it quickly so they were hidden in the cross hall.

“Was that him?” Mike said, having caught what looked like a couple of men talking from the corner of his eye.

“I think so. Rollins was talking to him.”

“Talking to him?” Mike said in surprise. “What’s he talking to him for?”

“Maybe to make sure he’s our guy,” Ham said evenly. “Maybe to keep him from leaving.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Mike said, the impatient one now that his son and Julie had been threatened.

“What happened to the voice of reason?” Ham drawled. “He might not even be the shooter,” Ham mimicked, “and if he is, he wasn’t aiming for me, and he might not have written the letter.”

“He threatened my son,” Mike growled, losing all perspective now that Sean was endangered.

Ham nodded his head. “Welcome to my world, Gooder. What do you suggest we do, confront him in the hallway there, maybe tackle him to the floor in front of all these children and their parents? And what if he has the gun on him?”

Mike sighed. He knew he was being unreasonable; it was just difficult to think about anything else with worry for Sean clouding his judgment. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

“I suggest we wait and see what Rollins has to say; he saw us.”

Five very long minutes later Rollins rounded the corner, pulling up short and slapping his hand to his chest when he saw them.

“Jesus! I didn’t expect to see you standing right there!”

Ham leaned against the wall, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, legs crossed at the ankles, looking relaxed to anyone who saw him. Mike paced.

“Well?” Mike said the moment he saw Rollins.

“Apparently he’s _not_ working today; he just came in to visit someone and pick up his check, so I had to stall him so he didn’t leave before you got here.”

“He’s leaving?” Mike said, taking an automatic step towards the intersection.

“Hold it, Gooder,” Ham said, stopping Mike in his tracks with nothing more than his words. “What else?” Ham asked Rollins.

“His name is Paul Becker. I confirmed he’s a nurse. He drives a Chrysler and he’s parked in the employee section of the garage. He’s already paid his visit, and he’ll be leaving as soon as he picks up his check. I thought we could wait for him in the parking garage, where it’s a little bit more private.”

Mike had to admit the plan was sound, even if he was chomping at the bit to confront the other man. His fear, one he couldn’t bring himself to voice out loud, was that this man, shooter or no, gunning for Mike or not, wasn’t the person who’d sent the letters. That there might be some other unknown person out there that wanted to hurt the people Mike cared about. Funny, how he was able to shrug off a possible threat to himself so easily, but bring his son into it and suddenly Mike wasn’t quite so blase about it.

~*~

Mike and Rollins were standing together, talking when Becker stepped off the elevator in the parking garage. He hesitated only a moment when he saw Mike, Rollins’ friendly greeting drawing him towards them.

“Mr. Becker,” Rollins said. “I don’t know if you’re aware of who Mike Donovan is . . . .”

Becker managed a ‘yes’ that could pass for friendly if you didn’t notice the pinched expression on his face.

“I wanted you to meet him because he’s working on that story with me.”

“Is he,” was Becker’s noncommital reply.

“Yes,” Rollins went on, as if oblivious to the growing tension. “We’re thinking about a special to be televised nationally, and since you’re so passionate about this cause, I hoped you’d agree to an interview.”

Becker looked torn between his love for the children he’d watched suffer, and his hatred of Mike, blaming him for more deaths. Finally he said, “I’ll think about it.”

Rollins smiled as if Becker had agreed, then handed over a card and asked the other man to call him. Before he could walk away, Rollins asked Becker for his phone number. Surprised, Becker gave it to him. They watched him walk away, his pace just short of running, and get into his car. Mike made a note of the license plate as they watched him back out of his parking spot and drive away.

~*~

Ham pulled the Impala up next to them and Mike quickly jumped in. Ham leaned down and spoke to Rollins through the open passenger side window.

“Did he give you his phone number?”

Rollins read off the number Paul Becker had given him while Ham checked it against the one he’d written on the pad of paper he’d taken from the hotel they’d stayed in the first night.

“That’s what Mayes found,” Ham confirmed. He tore a sheet off the pad and passed it to Rollins. “Check base with Mayes, and then meet Hernandez there,” he said, indicating the address on the paper. “We’re going to follow Becker.”

Ham pulled away before he’d finished speaking, and Mike was impressed by how quickly Rollins moved to not lose an arm. Mike clung to the door handle and dash board as Ham took the turns in the parking garage as quickly as he could, but he didn’t complain as he was thrown about because he actually wanted to ask Ham if he couldn’t go any faster. They caught up with Becker just as he was exiting the garage.

“Don’t get too close,” Mike said, afraid that Becker might notice them tailing him and recognize him.

“I know how to tail someone, Gooder,” Ham said without taking his eyes off the road.

“A talent you picked up in Laos?” Mike said. Bickering with Ham took his mind off the fact that they were _this close_ to the man who may have shot him, and threatened Sean.

“Honed it right here in LA,” Ham said evenly. “ _You_ never saw me, did you?”

“You did not follow me,” Mike said, disbelieving.

Ham glanced at Mike for a second, grinned.

“What are the others doing?” Mike said to change the subject. It was a bonus that he really wanted to know the answer.

“Searching Becker’s house,” Ham said.

“What! What if he’s going straight home?”

“They know what they’re doing,” Ham said.

“What are they looking for?”

“Evidence that he wrote the letters, a gun, anything to connect him to the threats or the shooting.”

“And what are we doing? I mean, I know what we’re doing,” Mike said. “But why?”

“Keep an eye on him, see what he’s up to, now that he’s been shaken up. Bonus points if he leads us to his secret lair.”

“Secret lair?” Mike said.

“Someplace to do his nefarious plotting,” Ham said.

The image of Paul Becker as some kind of evil mastermind was almost enough to make Mike smile, except his ‘nefarious plots’ included Sean.

Becker’s first stop was the bank. Ham drove past the parking lot and pulled into a fast food joint two lots down. He parked so they had a view of the bank.

“What’s he doing?” Mike said.

“Depositing his paycheck,” Ham said. “Or emptying his account so he can run.”

“You really think he’d do that?”

“Nah. I think he’s a man with a mission. He’s not going to quit until he’s put another bullet in you, or someone you care about.”

They watched as Becker returned to his car and pulled out. Ham started the car, but waited to see which way Becker was going to head before he backed out of his parking spot. Becker turned his car in their direction, but instead of continuing past the burger place, he pulled in.

“Are you kidding me?” Mike said as he slid down in the seat.

Ham watched in the rearview mirror as Becker drove past them and angled his car into the drive-thru lane.

“Out of all the fast food joints,” Ham murmured, and Mike snorted.

From there, they followed Becker to a gas station.

“Are we sure he’s _not_ leaving?” Mike said.

Following that stop Becker hit a grocery and a kennel. He was inside the grocery long enough to make them discuss whether Ham should go in and make sure he hadn’t left through the back door.

“Does he even have a dog?” Mike said as they watched Becker disappear into the kennel.

After that it was a straight shot to the address Mayes had found for Becker. They drove past the driveway he’d turned into, turned around, and parked on the other side of the street several houses down so they could keep an eye on Becker’s house. Neither Rollins nor Hernandez were anywhere in sight. They’d radioed when they got close enough to let them know Becker was headed home, but Mike couldn’t even pick out their vehicles from the others parked on the street.

“What now?”

“Now we find out what Rollins and Hernandez found when they searched the house.”

“How do we do that?” Mike said, eyeing the silent radio that Ham didn’t appear inclined to use.

Just then both back doors opened, and Rollins and Hernandez slipped into the backseat. Mike’s heart fell into his stomach and he automatically reached for the gun in his waistband before he realized who it was. He glared at Ham, whose amusement showed only in the way the corner of his eyes crinkled a little. Ham glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Well?”

“There’s paper and a marker that matches those used to create the letter,” Hernandez said.

“And a gun,” Rollins added. “Though I can’t tell if it’s been fired recently, because it’s been cleaned.”

“You can’t prove he was the one that shot me even with the gun,” Mike said, “because we don’t have a bullet to compare it to. The paper and the marker are just circumstantial, and only tie him to the threats, anyway.”

“So what do you suggest?” Hernandez said.

“I could just kill him,” Ham said conversationally, as if he talked about killing people all the time. Of course, given his previous line of work, he probably did. “I’ve got contacts who could dump the body in the ocean.”

“No!” Mike said.

Ham raised an eyebrow at him.

“He deserves a fair trial.”

“Would you feel the same way if he’d taken a shot at Sean?” Ham said. “Or Julie?”

“That’s different,” Mike said, sounding lame even to himself.

“Exactly,” Ham said, turning to stare out the window at Becker’s house. “Besides, you just shot down all the evidence we have; he’d probably walk if he got a ‘fair trial’.”

“Then we need to get better evidence,” Mike said.

“How do you propose we do that?”

~*~*~*~

“This is a really bad idea,” Ham said for the dozenth time.

“It’s the only idea we’ve got,” Mike said, also for the dozenth time, then yelped when Ham tore the tape off, and then retaped the recorder to Mike’s lower back.

“I can still shoot him and dump the body,” Ham said, as if that was really a viable option.

What scared Mike was that, to Ham, it probably was.

“I’ll be fine,” Mike said, addressing Ham’s actual concern.

Ham snorted. “The man’s got a gun, and he hates your guts.”

“He’s not going to shoot me in his own home,” Mike said. “Probably. Besides, I’ve got a secret weapon he doesn’t know about.”

“What’s that?”

Mike turned around after Ham pulled his shirt and jacket down to cover the recorder.

“You,” Mike said, and watched the expressions dance across Ham’s face.

“Later,” Mike said, “after neither one of us get shot, we should talk.”

“Talk?” Ham said, sounding as if he’d rather get shot.

Mike grinned as he picked up his camera. “Can you guys hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Rollins said.

“Unfortunately,” Mayes added.

“Shut it, Mayes,” Ham growled.

Hernandez chuckled. “Ooh, teacher’s pet got in trouble.”

“Bite me, Hernandez.”

Mike set the camera on the passenger seat of the Impala, then walked around to the driver’s side door. Once he drove away, Mike wouldn’t be able to hear anything from the others, but they’d hear everything that happened on his end through the open radio affixed to his camera. And they’d also have the entire conversation on tape.

“I’ll be fine,” Mike assured Ham, reaching out to rest his hand on Ham’s stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. Ham covered Mike’s hand with his own, and squeezed it.

“You’d better be,” Ham growled, corner of his jaw twitching.

~*~

Mike drove the Impala around the corner and parked in front of Becker’s house. Ham had contacted Mayes and had her call Becker, posing as Mike’s assistant, to set up a meeting. Mike figured that the only way to get enough evidence against Becker was to get him to confess, or to make an attempt on Mike’s life again, though he hadn’t told Ham that last part.

Mayes had then picked up Mike’s camera and driven out to meet them with what looked like an entire arsenal hidden in her trunk. Now, Mike carried his camera up to the front door and rang the bell. He couldn’t see Ham, and didn’t want to break cover to look, but Mike knew that he was watching, and would be right there if things went FUBAR. Becker answered the door and Mike plastered a smile on his face.

“Mr. Becker. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

Mike extended his hand, and Becker was forced to take it or give away his feelings. His hesitation was brief, and you might have missed it if you hadn’t been looking for it.

“Mr. Donovan,” Becker said. “As I told your assistant on the phone, I’m not sure what I can do to help you. And I don’t understand why Mr. Rollins wouldn’t accompany you.”

“Mr. Rollins is gathering the data,” Mike said, “but if we’re able to do a nationally televised special, I’ll be directing it, and I just wanted to give you an idea of what we’ll be looking for from you.”

“I haven’t agreed to participate, yet,” Becker hedged.

“I understand,” Mike said. “I think our conversation will put you at ease. May I come in, Mr. Becker?”

Becker reluctantly stepped back and let Mike into the house. Mike waited for Becker to close the front door, and then followed him into the living room.

“What’s the camera for?” Becker asked. “Your not filming anything now, are you?”

“No,” Mike said. “I get so used to carrying it with me, it’s like an extension of myself. May I just set it over here?”

Mike set the camera on the coffee table and hoped the radio was picking up their conversation.

“You have a nice place,” Mike said, and then made up some scenes they’d like to film for the fake special, such as Becker visiting some of his young patients, and an interview where they asked him about the number of children who were diagnosed with the awful disease, and how many of them didn’t make it.

Mike pushed the emotional angle when he saw that Becker was getting worked up, either because Mike was standing right there in front of him, or because he was being reminded of the very thing he blamed Mike for.

“Maybe you can talk about some of the particularly difficult cases,” Mike said, “and how hard it was to watch them go through the treatment.”

Mike pushed Becker’s buttons, and when he saw that it was working, pushed them harder. Part of him felt sorry for the man, he did not envy him having to watch children suffer and die day after day, but he’d made the mistake of bringing Sean into it, so Mike was not inclined to show him any quarter.

Mike mentioned Jillian Hart and suggested that she might be a good case study to use, that her story might be a good one to show the world the insidiousness of the dreaded disease. As it had once before, Jillian’s death was the straw that broke the camel’s back again.

“It’s your fault!” Becker snapped. “If you hadn’t driven off the Visitors, that young girl would still be alive.”

“I don’t understand . . . .”

“They offered us a cure!” Spittle flew as Becker screamed out his anger and pain and frustration.

“They were never going to give us the cure,” Mike said, some part of him needing to reason with Becker.

“They would have!” Becker yelled.

Mike realized then that Becker needed to believe that fiction, to believe that there was a cure _somewhere_.

“Do you have any idea how many people, how many _children_ , are going to die because of you?”

“I’m sorry they’re going to die, but it’s not because of anything I did or didn’t do.”

“It is!” Becker screamed. “It is! You’re a murderer!” Becker pointed angrily. “A murderer. And you deserve to die for all the people you’ve sentenced to death.”

“You already tried once, didn’t you, to give justice to the children, to Jillian?” Mike coaxed.

“Yes, but I won’t miss this time,” Becker said as he picked up the gun he must have set on the bookshelf before Mike arrived.

“Huh,” Mike said. He’d been so certain that Becker wouldn’t try anything in his own home. Ham was going to be so pissed.

“You really don’t want to do this,” Mike said.

“Don’t tell me what I want!” Becker said, stabbing the gun towards Mike.

For the first time Mike clearly saw the insanity gleaming in Paul Becker’s eyes.

Suddenly Ham was there, appearing from nowhere, his own gun pressed to the base of Becker’s skull. “Drop it.”

“No.” Becker raised his gun and pointed it at Mike.

“I will shoot you without blinking an eye,” Ham warned.

The rest of Ham’s team entered the living room and spread out, making sure that Becker was in their sights, without either Mike or Ham being caught in the crossfire.

“I don’t care if I die,” Becker claimed, “as long as I take him with me.”

“If you die there’ll be no one to tell the story,” Mike said.

“I don’t need my story told.”

“Not yours; the childrens’.”

Becker’s attention wavered just long enough for Mike to bring his arm up and hit Becker’s wrist, knocking his aim off and loosening his grip on the gun. Mike easily disarmed Becker, then glanced at Ham.

“Tyler.”

Ham didn’t lower his gun.

“Do it,” Becker dared.

Mike handed the gun he’d taken from Becker to Mayes as he studied the determined expression on Ham’s face.

“Ham,” Mike said.

Mike ignored Becker, who cradled his sore wrist, stepping past him so that he stood beside Ham.

“He was tired of watching children die; he needed someone to blame.”

“He shot you,” Ham said, his eyes boring a hole in the back of Becker’s head.

“I know, but I’m fine.”

Mike knew better than to touch the gun, or the arm Ham aimed it with, so he slid his hand across Ham’s stomach. “I’m fine. And we still need to have that talk.”

Ham’s eyes darted towards Mike, then back to Becker. The corner of Ham’s jaw twitched, but Mike knew that everything was going to be alright now that he’d broken the standoff.

“Mayes,” Ham bit out.

Mayes stepped forward, frisked Becker, and then cuffed his hands in front of him in deference to the wrist Mike had injured. Ham reholstered his gun, and then dropped his hand to cover Mike’s. Mike flexed his fingers against Ham’s stomach and swallowed hard.

“Next time somebody, that’s not me, shoots you, I’m shooting them,” Ham said.

“Okay,” Mike agreed. He’d have probably agreed to anything with the way Ham was looking at him right then.

Hernandez broke the mood by lifting Mike’s shirt and ripping the tape off his back.

“Ow!” Mike yelped.

“Before you say anything really incriminating,” Hernandez said, holding up the tape recorder.

~*~

An hour later Mike leaned against the hood of the Impala while he waited for Ham to finish with the police. It was an interesting experience, watching Ham in action.

Ham had called his contact at the LAPD, Detective Hal Jacoby, to cut down on the questions, and then called Marrow and suggested that he contact whomever he knew within the LAPD to grease the way. Despite the fact that the hour had felt like two because of the sudden drop in adrenaline, Mike knew that things had moved rather quickly, considering.

Ham had explained everything to Jacoby, showed him the letters and picture, told him how they’d found the man, but knew they’d need more than circumstantial evidence, so they devised a plan they’d hoped would garner a confession.

“Did you anticipate the gun?” Jacoby asked sarcastically.

“We didn’t believe he’d try to shoot Donovan inside his own home, but we were prepared for the possibility,” Ham said, selling it better than Mike would’ve expected given that he’d yelled at Mike about that very miscalculation until Jacoby pulled up.

Jacoby questioned Mike and Ham’s team, except Mayes, who’d been sent back to the office with most of their arsenal. Mike didn’t know if they were unregistered, or whether Ham just didn’t want to deal with the hassle should they be discovered. Finally Jacoby had the uniformed officers take Becker down to the station and book him on charges of assault, harassment and attempted murder. He spoke to Ham for a few minutes more before glancing at Mike, and then getting in his Crown Victoria and driving off.

“He wants official statements,” Ham said as he leaned against the hood next to Mike.

Mike nodded.

“Listen,” Mike said, turning his head to look at Ham.

Ham gave Mike a blank look, and Mike could tell that he was expecting the ‘thanks, but no thanks’ speech.

“You made sure Sean was safe. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Thank you.”

Ham looked surprised for a moment, and then it was gone. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

“I was thinking of driving up to Ojai,” Mike said. “Not that I don’t trust you; I just need to see him for myself.”

Ham nodded his understanding.

“I wondered if you wanted to go with me. Unless you’ve already got another job lined up.”

This time Ham couldn’t wipe the surprised expression off his face quite so quickly. “You want me to go with you.”

“You don’t have to. I just thought . . . .”

“I’d like that.”

Mike wasn’t sure what to do now that he’d asked and Ham had said yes. He’d been too concerned about getting the words out, half expecting Ham to politely decline.

“Unless you wanna take it back now,” Ham drawled.

“No!” Mike turned so his hip was resting against the hood and he could look at Ham without craning his neck around. “I just . . . wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Well, I _wanted_ you to say yes,” Mike said. “Rethinking that now, though,” he muttered.

“Wanna take it back _now_?”

“A little bit,” Mike said, then he looked at Ham’s face, amusement and . . . something Mike didn’t want to think about right then, softening the usual hard edges, and he laughed.

“God,” Mike said, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in the ass. I forget, when I’m missing you, and then you come back into my life and . . . . What?” he said when he saw the serious expression replace amusement on Ham’s face.

“You missed me?”

Mike silently reviewed everything he’d just said. “Uh . . . . You know, we should probably get going.” Mike pushed off the car and walked around to the passenger side. “Come on, it’s getting late.”

Mike got in the car and watched Ham through the windshield. He moved slowly, deliberately, letting Mike know it was his decision when he stood away from the hood and moved to the driver’s side door. Ham slid into his seat and started the car without saying anything. Mike felt nervous as Ham pulled away from the curb. Now that the case was over, for all intents and purposes, they had no reason to be together. Unless . . . .

Mike suddenly realized that they were headed towards his neighborhood. “How’d we get here?”

Ham gave him a raised eyebrow in reply.

“I meant, how did you . . . You know where I live?”

“I know what you eat for breakfast,” Ham replied.

“Are you stalking me?” Mike said, stomach fluttering for all the wrong reasons. Because that was not hot.

“Just making sure you don’t do anything stupid and get yourself killed.”

“It was more dangerous in El Salvador, and you weren’t keeping an eye on me then.”

“How do you know?” Ham drawled, which did all sorts of things to Mike’s belly.

Mike wiped damp palms on his thighs when Ham turned into his driveway and pulled the car to a stop. “Would you, uh, like to come in? For coffee, or whatever?” he said.

Ham turned in his seat to look at Mike, put his arm along the back of it. “Coffee sounds good,” Ham’s lips said, but the way he looked at Mike suggested that something else entirely, most likely Mike himself, was on the menu.

“Okay, well,” Mike said, and opened the door.

Mike walked up to the front door, pretending he wasn’t listening for Ham to turn off the engine, open the car door, and slam it shut. It felt strange to push the door open and step into his house for the first time since he’d left that morning three days ago. Especially with the knowledge that Ham would be seeing Mike’s place for the first time – that Mike knew about. Mike held the door for Ham, then closed it.

“So,” Mike said, putting his hands on his hips and watching Ham look at his home.

“Nice place,” Ham said.

“Thanks.” Mike ran his fingers through his hair. “I should make that coffee now.”

Ham turned his head and looked at Mike. His eyes slid down Mike’s body, and Mike shivered under the weight of Ham’s gaze.

“The coffee can wait,” Ham said when he’d dragged his eyes back up to meet Mike’s. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” Mike said, surprised into blurting the question out, and then he blushed. “I mean . . . .”

Ham smirked, and then the smirk dropped off his face and he just looked at Mike. “What do you want, Gooder?”

This was it; put up or shut up time. When Mike didn’t answer right away, Ham went on.

“You want to forget about this, pretend it never happened?”

“No!” Mike said. “I . . . I’m afraid to say it out loud,” he admitted. “I mean, you and me, we’re like . . . .”

“Oil and water?” Ham suggested.

Mike huffed a laugh. “Yeah, sometimes. Gasoline and a match, other times.”

“Yeah,” Ham agreed. “Those are good times.”

“I wasn’t talking about in bed!” Mike said as a flush crawled up his neck.

“Neither was I,” Ham drawled, raising an eyebrow at Mike. “But that’s good, too.”

Mike sputtered, because really, good? Ham smirked again, as if he knew what Mike was thinking.

“I was just saying, we’re pretty volatile,” Mike said, getting them back on topic. “I mean, what if someone gets hurt?”

“You?”

“Or you,” Mike said, not wanting it to seem like he was a chicken shit, afraid of taking a chance. “Or, hell, the neighbors.”

“I promise not to shoot the neighbors,” Ham said solemnly.

“What about not shooting _me_?”

“As I recall, you were the one threatening to do the shooting.”

Mike tried not to think about what they’d been doing when he’d made that threat. He was mostly unsuccessful.

“Besides, I don’t think that’s what’s got you worried.”

“I’m not _worried_.”

“Justifiably concerned?”

“Look, Tyler, I just . . . .”

“You’re afraid I’m going to leave you,” Ham said. “Or so you say.” Ham continued before Mike could formulate a reply. “I think you’re more afraid I won’t, that I’ll stick around, that this thing.” He indicated the two of them. “Will suddenly be real.”

Mike puffed up to say something, issue some sort of denial, and then deflated. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I screwed up my marriage, and this is . . . .”

“Different? Dangerous? Scary?”

Mike laughed. “Yeah, pretty much all of that. Maybe we could take it slow,” he said, feeling like a little girl even before Ham’s eyebrow went up.

“It’s too late for that, Gooder. We’ve already jumped in the deep end, now we either sink or swim.”

Mike snorted, and Ham narrowed his eyes.

“No, no,” Mike said, chuckling. “It’s just, I had this very vaguely formed idea that you might try to woo me with romance, or something resembling it.”

Ham examined Mike as if he might be an alien, which, given their history, was a very real possibility.

“You’ve met me, right?” Ham said dryly.

Mike fell back against the door weakly, as more chuckles escaped. “Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Maybe we should have that coffee after all,” Ham said, looking around them. “Which way’s the kitchen?”

“No, wait,” Mike said, reaching out and catching Ham’s hand before he could go off in search of the coffee maker. He swallowed hard. “I don’t want coffee.” Then licked lips gone dry.

Ham’s eyes dropped to Mike’s mouth, and suddenly it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air. Mike tugged on Ham’s hand, and he took a careful step forward.

“Tyler,” Mike said, the word coming ragged out of his dry throat. “Ham.”

Suddenly Ham was pressed against him, pushing Mike into the hard wood as they kissed. Though it was more a battle than a kiss, Mike thought, as their tongues invaded each other’s mouths. At one point Mike tasted blood; he couldn’t tell if it was his own or Ham’s, but that didn’t stop either of them. Only the need to breathe finally forced them apart.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Ham asked, voice even raspier than usual.

“You don’t know?” Mike said breathlessly. “I figured while you were stalking me you cased the joint.”

“I wasn’t stalking you,” Ham said as he dragged Mike away from the door and into another kiss.

Mike lost track of everything but Ham’s tongue and hands until he was unceremoniously released. He bounced on the mattress.

“Seriously?” Mike said, laughing, but he forgot what he’d been about to say when Ham slipped out of his leather jacket and stood before Mike in a tight black t-shirt and the shoulder holster. He had to swallow to wet his throat, and still he couldn’t form words.

Ham slid the holster off his shoulders and carefully laid it over the arm of the chair. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and started to lift it, and Mike moaned, anticipating the sight of Ham’s bare chest.

“You gonna keep those clothes on?” Ham said after he pulled the t-shirt over his head, mussing his hair. Ham’s gaze moved over Mike, stopping at his groin. “Those jeans look uncomfortable.”

They were. “They are,” Mike admitted out loud as he slid his hand over the denim, squeezed himself. Which was a mistake, as it made him press more insistently against the material.

Mike unfastened his fly to give himself more room. He stroked himself through the cotton of his briefs, moaning as the fabric scraped over the sensitive head. Ham gave up on his jeans and got his boots and socks off. He climbed on the bed and crawled over Mike, straddling his legs. Mike slid his free hand up Ham’s thigh as he continued to stroke himself. Ham watched Mike’s hand as it moved over his cock.

“If you don’t stop that, you won’t be able to fuck me.”

Mike groaned and squeezed himself. That actually made it more difficult for him to stop. Mike’s cock twitched in his hand and grew even harder at the thought of pushing into Ham. Mike forced his fingers to release, and then pressed his hand to the mattress, afraid he wouldn’t be able to resist touching himself again.

Ham smirked, as if he knew just how difficult that had been for Mike to do.

“Fucker,” Mike ground out, but he kept his hand off himself.

Mike’s eyes fell to the bulge behind Ham’s zipper. He sat up and flipped them so that Ham was on the bottom. Mike was bigger, but Ham fought dirty – he’d learned early on where all of Mike’s ticklish spots were. The fact that he stayed beneath Mike meant that he wanted to be there, which did not turn Mike’s crank at all.

Mike reached between them and palmed Ham through his jeans. Ham moaned, a sound that went right through Mike and curled around his balls. He finished unfastening Ham’s fly and shoved his hand beneath the elastic. Ham pushed into Mike’s hand as he stroked him.

“Wanna suck you,” Mike said, voice rough like sandpaper as he imagined the feel of Ham’s cock on his tongue, the taste of him.

Ham lifted his hips at Mike’s urging, and Mike pulled jeans and briefs down just far enough to free Ham’s cock, and then immediately swooped down and took it into his mouth. Ham grunted when Mike covered him and sucked. He put a hand in Mike’s hair and just held him. Ham made sounds deep in his throat, and Mike could tell that he was holding back from pushing into Mike’s mouth so he didn’t hurt him.

But Mike wanted it a little bit rough, wanted to feel Ham fucking his mouth hard, sliding down his throat. Mike lifted his mouth off Ham’s cock until he was just licking the head.

“Take it,” Mike said, and then slid his mouth back down over Ham.

Ham didn’t need to be asked twice. He slid his hand to the back of Mike’s neck and tightened his grip, then thrust up. Mike moaned as Ham fucked his mouth, forced his cock deeper until it filled his throat.

Ham groaned as he brought himself off in Mike’s mouth, and nonsensical words that Mike wondered if Ham even realized he was saying, fell from his lips. With one final thrust, and a moan of pleasure-pain, Ham emptied himself in Mike’s mouth. Mike pulled back so that Ham’s pulsing cock spurted onto his tongue.

Mike swallowed and swallowed, and then he licked Ham’s twitching cock clean before licking his own lips, and catching the come dripping down his chin on his thumb. Ham looked completely wasted, and, Mike couldn’t lie, he liked knowing that he’d done that to him. Mike smiled around his thumb as he sucked it clean.

“So,” Ham said. His voice was low and raspy, and his lids so heavy his eyes looked closed. “We’re really doing this.”

Mike wasn’t entirely sure Ham had meant to let his thoughts escape, but he answered him anyway.

“Yeah,” Mike said, as he crawled up Ham’s body and made himself comfortable beside him. He cradled Ham’s face and kissed him, slow and lazy, just sharing the taste of Ham on his tongue. Mike pulled back and looked at Ham, then rested his head on Ham’s shoulder. “I guess we are.”

The End


End file.
